Two Sisters [Part 5. Finale]

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Previous episodes of Two Sisters can be read in previous posts on Anecdotage.

I hear no more. A week later, Christmas is cranking up and we’re busier than ever at the agency, arranging a festive meal and entertainment for our elderly and disabled clients and sorting out their transport to the venue, on top of our usual, caring duties. We all feel the need of a knees-up so we gather at our local, which is hosting a DJ night and three-for-two on cocktails and spirits. By the time it winds up we’re all merry, also hoarse from all the screeching at each other. It’s in this festive, warm afterglow that I get off at my nearest bus stop and make my way to the flats, looking forward to sliding between the sheets and enjoying the heat of the electric blanket.

I push open the outer door into the hallway, delving into my bag for my key and look up to see a woman, slumped on the carpet by the console table that houses our mail. I have to do a double-take before I realise it’s her, Terry, collapsed on the carpet, bundled in her coat, handbag spilling out next to her. She raises her face to mine. Her face is ravaged, smeared lipstick, mascara streaks and red, swollen eyes. I pull her to her feet and she sags against me, weeping.

Not wishing to conduct enquiries here in the hallway, I pull her towards and up the stairs to my floor, into the flat and lower her down on to the sofa, where she sinks, sobbing. I switch on the electric fire, manoeuvre her out of her coat and sit down next to her, waiting for the shuddering sobs to subside.

In the aftermath, I acknowledge that the entire, sorry saga has been predictable. Should I have tried harder to prevent the disaster that befell her? I’ve had to conclude that nothing I could have said or done would have caused her to give up her scheme or be more circumspect in her relationship with Julian- if indeed that was his name.

She’s not recognisable as the woman she was. I come home from work each day and she is sprawled on the sofa in front of the TV watching anything and everything. Most days, she’s still in the pyjamas I had to give her and won’t have washed or brushed her hair, which has grown long and straggly, the blond highlights making their way down the sides of her face to make way for grey.

On my days off, I make attempts to get her out of the flat but so far I’ve been unsuccessful. She has nothing but her state pension and I’ve suggested she finds some employment, although she shows no sign of searching for jobs on my old, battered laptop or making any attempts to compile a CV. Her conversation is, at best, monosyllabic. She neither shops nor cooks and does no housework.

I have managed to worm the gist of what happened out of her, of what became of her home and all of her belongings, including her sporty BMW car. She seems adamant that there’s nothing to be done. She signed everything over to him; her savings, her property, her house contents- all passed to him like a dish of peas. She can no more gain entry to her former home or business than she can fairyland, since it’s locked up and in the hands of estate agents. Where is ‘Julian’? Fleecing some other unsuspecting, gullible, older woman by now, no doubt.

I haven’t given up my bedroom and she must sleep on the sofa-bed, the one that my daughter uses when she stays, only now she has to share with me when she visits. I bought a small, second hand TV for my bedroom, which I’ve converted into a bed-sitting room so that I can escape from the gloomy cloud that hangs around her in her despondency/

I don’t invite her to join in my nights out with the girls. I need my own space away from her and besides, she wouldn’t want to come. It’s a world away from the yacht club or cruising and she wouldn’t want to admit how far she’s fallen. The girls tell me I should throw her out, her and her arrogant, self-centred ways and I should reclaim my flat and my life. But I’m not able to, not able to throw her out on the street.

She’s my sister…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Two Sisters [Part 4]

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Previous chapters of this story can be read in the last 3 weeks’ posts-

For a week or so I hear nothing. It’s a relief to get on with my work and my social life without the interference of my sister. I assume she’s busy serving wealthy, glamorous customers and I adopt an ‘out-of-sight-out-of-mind’ attitude.

I’m getting done up for the night when she texts me, wanting to know why I haven’t visited the shop yet. She will give me a ‘special discount’ on anything I would like to buy. I snort at this. Fifty per cent off any item in her clothing range would still take half my salary for a week. After this, I’m deluged with a torrent of texts which become ever more reproachful as they continue to plop into my phone. I suppose I must pop in tomorrow, which is Saturday and see her, although I resolve not to buy anything. It’s not simply a matter of price, but the clothes are not my style, consisting of shiny, hugely patterned kaftans, sparkly, skimpy boob tubes and furry stoles.

I look in on my way to Lidl. As I push open the door, a bell tinkles and Terry looks up from a magazine she’s reading as she leans her elbows on the oak counter. There’s no one else in the store- no prospective customers perusing the rails, nobody in a changing cubicle or holding up a dress or peering at the ostentatious jewellery and accessories. There is no Julian, either.

She looks up and beams at me.

‘Darling! How lovely to see you! I’m so glad you found the time to visit. I keep finding things that would be perfect for you. I see a top and I think, ‘that’d be fabulous on Sherry’. Come and see!’

I begin to splutter replies about cash flow but she silences me, holding a hand up. ‘Darling! You must let me treat you to something. I won’t hear of you spending your hard-earned pennies on anything in here. Come on!’

I trail after her along the rails as she plucks out various items, finishing by pushing me towards a curtained cubicle and thrusting the pile of clothes inside.

‘I want to see you in everything!’ she warns. I sink down on the stool in the cubicle and survey the price tags on the items, choosing the cheapest, a tiny, orange vest top embellished with purple faux jewels. It’s ghastly.

I leave the boutique an hour later, having managed to convince her I neither want or need anything to wear and having had a coffee with her. During all of this time, no one else has entered the shop. When I ask her where Julian is, she mutters something about suppliers and accountants, which strikes me as odd, since she’d assured me that Julian was, himself a qualified accountant.

I wander past the shop on occasions after this but don’t enter, preferring to glance in past the displays and see how busy it is. Once or twice I spot a young woman at the counter, staring at her phone but never serving anyone. Terry must have taken her on to give herself some time off. I can only guess at how boring it must be to man a shop day after day and not see any customers.

There’s a long, restful period with no communication from Terry and it’s the run up to Christmas. Her window displays look good, colour themed, with fake snow, Christmas trees and mannequins decked out in fur capes. I’ve been too busy to meet up with my sister and the girls and I have been planning out Christmas get together.

A month passes before I hear from her, a voice message and she sounds anxious rather than excited. Once home from work, I ring her but she doesn’t pick up so I say I’m returning her call. Then I go off out. It’s my choir night. I’m not much of a singer but I enjoy the company and the shared activity. I try ringing a couple more times when I get home, with no response…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Two Sisters [Part 3]

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[Parts 1 and 2 of ‘Two Sisters’ can be read in the previous 2 weeks’ posts]

I decide to accept the taxi offer. Wearing my good, black trousers and a silk shirt, I climb out of the cab and enter the restaurant. Renoir’s is one of those eateries with a long waiting list for tables. It has an extravagant exterior, with exotic, fake blooms framing the entrance and inside there are fake trees smothered in more fake flowers dotted around the tables. It’s a cavernous place and I need to ask the waiter who took the booking where to find my sister and Julian. We get there in the end- a table by the window which overlooks the street.

They spot me winding my way through the diners. Julian stands, comes around and proffers a hand to shake then goes to pull out a chair for me. I catch Terry’s eye and she’s grinning like the proverbial cat, which makes me frown.

Her man is solicitous and charming, pouring wine, complimenting, asking about my work, professing admiration. He has a George Clooney look: silver streaked hair swept back, yachtsman’s tan, navy, Lacoste cotton sweater slung casually around his shoulders, immaculate pale blue shirt, chinos and loafers. Everything about him says ‘Look how well-to-do I am’.

Terry is smitten. She hangs on his every word. I notice all her sentences now begin with ‘we’, meaning herself and Julian. When the waiter arrives, I choose my starter, unbothered by the expense. Julian is paying.

‘We’d love you to come and see the shop now, Sherry,’ Terry gushes, ‘It’s looking just marvellous, isn’t it, darling?’ She places a hand over his.

‘Mm,’ I murmur, picking up my glass and sipping.

She continues, describing all the changes that have taken place, the rich magenta walls, the changing cubicles with their dark, red velvet curtains, the rails and shelving, the magnificent oak counter that Julian has sourced from an antique dealer he knows. I allow a faint smile and nod from time to time throughout this monologue. Julian watches her, grinning, not interrupting until at last, she comes to a halt.

Our starters come. I apply myself to the crayfish bisque, having decided I may as well enjoy the food, if nothing else. My sister looks up from her pate de foie gras, small crumbs of toast adhering to her lips.

‘I haven’t told you the best bit, Sheridan.’ I’m startled. She rarely calls me by my full name. Perhaps it’s for Julian’s benefit?

‘What?’ I look down at my dish, wondering if I can get away with soaking up the last smears of bisque with the remains of the sliced ciabatta.

‘Well darling, best of all, Julian is moving in with me!’ She sits back, shedding crumbs on to her cleavage, an expectant look ion her face. Now, why am I not surprised?

I place my spoon into the bowl, dab my lips with the pristine, linen napkin and sit back. ‘Um…well I suppose congratulations are in order.’

She chatters on, Julian nodding along. They laugh, heads drawing together. I learn that Julian has been married and has two sons, both working in the United States in finance of some sort. Julian has been living on his yacht until now, sailing wherever the weather of his fancy takes him. He loves Monaco and wouldn’t have minded living there if he hadn’t met Terry. He shows me a photo of the yacht, a gin palace moored in some sun-soaked destination.

I’m relieved when our main courses arrive and I can give my full attention to the fillet steak and bearnaise sauce. When Julian gets up, excuses himself and goes to the men’s room, she leans towards me. ‘Well? What do you think, darling? Isn’t he gorgeous? I’m so lucky! I want to find you somebody like him, now. It’s a shame he doesn’t have a twin brother!’

‘Terry, you know very well I have no interest at all in finding a man. I like my life as it is, thanks!’ I know, however that I’ll never convince her.

I don’t hear from my sister for another couple of weeks, then she phones to invite me to the grand opening of ‘Cruise Collections’. She’s excited. It’s to be a classy do with champagne and canapes, all bought in of course. I fail to see how I can escape this shindig, which is next Saturday evening, starting at seven pm. She’s got some models coming to do a show displaying some of the outfits and to showcase her ideas for capsule wardrobes, for those who can’t think how to pack for a cruise. She’s managed to get replies from a crowd of her acquaintances from golf, horse-racing, motor racing and sailing.

On Saturday evening I put on my good, black trousers and a different silk shirt and go along, arriving at about seven thirty, hoping to sidle in among the well-heeled and glamorous and lurk in a dark corner, however she pounces on me as soon as she spots me and drags me through the milling party-goers, grabbing a champagne flute from a passing tray and thrusting me into a group of elegant women in sparkly outfits.

‘This is my sister, Sheridan, everyone, I couldn’t have done all this without her!’ She melts away then, leaving me to filed questions about what part I’ve played in the assemblage of this brand, new business. I hedge and duck their probing until they lose interest and return to their gossip, excusing myself to dive through into the tiny kitchen area where the drinks and canapes are laid out. Grabbing a tray, I return to the shop area and circle with it, bumping into Julian as I’m about to return and fetch another round.

I greet him. He returns a vague nod and moves away. So he doesn’t remember me, his possible sister-in-law. This both amuses and alarms me…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Two Sisters [Part 2]

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[Part 1 of ‘Two Sisters’ can be read in last week’s post]

I lead a frugal life, in my sister’s estimation, a one-bedroom flat in a modest block, an old Peugeot 205, kept alive by the ministrations of a kindly mechanic, a wardrobe furnished with charity shop finds, a practical haircut maintained by an old friend. I’ve one, grown-up daughter who lives in Scotland, where she went to university, meaning that my holidays are taken there. No cruises or Florida stays for me. But I reckon that my life is fulfilled and happier than Terry’s in so many ways. It’s just that she doesn’t see it.

‘It’s up to you.’ she pouts. ‘Let me know if you change your mind.’ I nod.

A few days later she rings to tell me she has the keys to the shop and do I want to see the inside? I feel an obligation to keep an eye on her, so I agree to meet there on my next day off, which is in two days’ time. It’s a blustery, early autumn day. Fallen leaves have gathered in the corner of the shop’s doorway and a cool wind makes me pull my my collar up as she fumbles with the keys. After a few minutes the door creaks open and she steps in to wait, breathless for my reaction. There’s not a lot to say. It’s a small space with a stained carpet and some dusty shelving, a door in the back corner.

‘Where does that go?’ I nod at the door. She leads me through to a tiny, dingy kitchen area with a window on to a back yard housing dustbins. She’s behind me. ‘Isn’t it great?’ she breathes.

‘Mmm,’ I murmur, not turning. ‘How will you raise the cash to do it up?’

‘We already have a bank loan. Julian’s been brilliant at that side of it.’ I turn to look at her.

‘How did you get a loan? Didn’t you need to put up some collateral?’

‘Oh yes, we did. But we only needed property for that.. I stare at her.

‘Property? What property? Julian’s?’ She looks shifty, averting her eyes from mine.

‘No dear, mine. My property.;

Thinking of nothing to say, I stride back into the shop, unable to look at her. Terry owms a detached, double-fronted, four-bedroom, two-bathroom, Victorian house, overlooking the park, with a conservatory and a landscaped garden. Not all of her encounters with men have been wasted.

I resolve to have nothing more to do with her enterprise. She’s made her bed, burned her books and inspired a lot of other cliches. I don’t contact her and hear nothing more for two weeks. Then she rings me.

‘How;s it going?’ she asks, as if I’m the one undertaking a new project. I’m cautious.

‘OK,’ I reply, ‘Nothing special happening here. Same old.’ I’m determined not to ask about the shop or Julian or anything else to do with her scheme.

‘I’m ringing,’ she says, ‘because Julian would like to meet you and he’s booked a table at Renoir’s for us all tomorrow night. Are you free then?’ I hesitate. Although I am free tomorrow night, I have no desire to meet Julian or to talk about Terry’s business.

‘I’m not free tomorrow night,’ I tell her.

‘Oh Sher! Surely you can put it off, whatever it is? Is it your girls’ night out? Can’t you change it? I’m so looking forward to you two meeting up.And we’ve got so much to tell you. It’s all going really well. I wondered if you’d like to help me choose some stock now that the interior’s almost done.’

I go out with the girls about once a week. We go to musical venues, have a drink, a dance and a laugh. We don’t have a regular night but it’s always the highlight of my week. My colleagues are like family to me. We share everything- problems, stories, tears and laughter. But we’re going out the day after tomorrow. I’d been planning a cosy night in tomorrow, slobbing on the sofa in my pyjamas with a drama serial I’ve started watching. Besides, Renoir’s is expensive, not somewhere I’d frequent on a regular basis. Terry puts on her wheedling voice.

‘We’d love you to come. Julian’s paying for everything so you wouldn’t need to worry. He’ll even send a taxi for you and to get home. I can lend you something to wear, too, if you like.’

‘I’ll let you know,’ I say.

‘Don’t take too long, dear. You know how busy Renoir’s can get. We’ve only got a table because Julian knows the manager.’

I slump. There doesn’t appear to be a way out. And somewhere inside of me a small frisson of curiosity is needling. I leave it an hour then call her back to agree, but I won’t need an outfit, thanks. I’ve plenty of nice clothes to choose from…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Two Sisters

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A brand new short story begins today-

It’s three in the afternoon and I’m staring into the empty shop window at our reflections; two, late middle-aged women, as different as any two women can be, except that we’re not only sisters, but twins.

‘Sher…Sher…Sherry!’ she bellows. ‘Are you listening?’

My parents named us Therese and Sheridan, unaware that we’d be labelled ‘Terry and Sherry’ for the rest of our lives, as if we were a comedy act from the seventies.

But I’m not listening, no. I haven’t been. I switched off, like I always do. I’ve been here too many times- not at this shop window, but summoned to hear one of her latest, hair-brained schemes, or where she’s about to holiday, or who is the latest man friend.

My sister: Therese Louisa Rawlings: vivacious, curvaceous, immaculate, coiffed, pampered and wealthy. She flits like a butterfly on speed from one project to another, calling all these ideas ‘work’.

‘I’m working on something,’ she will say. ‘I’ll let you know.’ Sometimes she’ll text me to tell me she’s away for the weekend, or she’ll say she’s going on a cruise. Sometimes she applies for jobs. She’s been an estate agent, a hotel receptionist, a dog walker, a photographer’s assistant and a theatre box office manager, though none of these pursuits lasted long due to their requiring some commitment. She’d realised she had to get up and be there at a certain time of day. She’d discovered that the jobs were less glamourous than she’d imagined. The remuneration had been less than she’d expected.

‘Sorry,’ I tell her. ‘It’s the traffic.’

The shop is by a busy roundabout on the outskirts of town. I’ve walked past it for the last four years and never seen it occupied. Its windows display a few dog-eared and faded posters, some of upcoming events, others of long past- circus, wrestling, dirt-car racing. Cobwebs and a thick layer of dust cover the surface of all of it, the window-sill dotted with insect carcasses.

Terry steps back and sweeps her arm along in a presentational gesture.

‘This,’ she begins, ‘this is my new venture, a business. What do you think?’ I feel weary. I’ve weathered more of her excitements and disappointments than she’s gulped consolatory gin and tonics but I hate being the constant voice of disparagement. Mostly, I know I’ll need to be the one picking up the fragments of her devastated vision once it’s all over.

‘Oh,’ I say.

‘Well? Aren’t you going to ask me what it will be?’

‘Ok. What will it be?’

She has that manic expression, eyes wide and arms folded. ‘I haven’t completely decided yet. But I’m leaning towards a little boutique. I thought it could be directed towards people going on luxury cruises and so on. What do you think?’

I suppress a sigh in favour of a non-committal grunt. She grins at me. ‘Sherry, I thought we could do this together. You could leave that godawful job at the care agency and come and sell beautiful clothes to rich retirees. I think you’d be good at it!’

There are so many responses I can conjure to this that I need to turn away and cough into my hand to buy time. Terry has never understood that I love my job as much as any other part of my life. I love the elderly and disabled folks I try to help and I adore my cheerful, generous, fun and caring colleagues, with whom I socialise as well as work. There is no career or salary in the world that would tempt me away from my job.

As if she’s read my thoughts, she breaks the silence. ‘I should think you could earn a bit more working with me, you know. Shall we get a coffee? I can fill you in on a few of the details.’

During the stroll to the coffee shop, she shocks me, not only with the news that she’s already taken on the lease of the shop but that she has a business partner, a man called Julian. We seat ourselves in the window of the coffee house. I lean towards her.

‘Terry, you know nothing about running abusiness. Shoudn’t you take a book-keeping course or something? There’s more to it than dressing a shop window, isn’t there? What about tax, insurance, business law, VAT, employment law-all that stuff?’

She laughs. ‘Oh, I’m not worried about all that! Julian is the business head. He’ll deal with it. He’s run several businesses and is an experienced bookkeeper. I’m going to be the creative partner, designing the decor, buying the stock, doing the advertising- that kind of thing. I’d love you to meet him. He’s such a wonderful, inspiring person, full of ideas enthusiasm.’ She stirs a sweetener into her cappachino, her cheeks flushed, a speck of lipstick on her teeth.

I gaze at her; at her salon-streaked hair, matching gold earrings and necklace, extravagantly painted nails and designer top. Soo, even the illusion of a desirable, glamorous woman will be beyond her reach. She’s begun to mention surgery, just to ‘tighten a few things up’

‘So how did you meet this Julian?’ I ask. She bristles, frowning. I should not have called him ‘this’ Julian.

‘I met him at the yacht club. I was just standing at the bar, wondering which cocktail to choose when I saw him. He looked good, you know, distinguished. He wears nice clothes and has that sort of swept back hair- silver of course, but he’s an attractive man. I asked him what he would choose and we got talking- and he bought the mojito.’ She smiles a coy grin into her coffee and I shudder. She’s met three husbands and a couple of partners at the yacht club, which is one of her hunting grounds. She has no interest whatsoever in sailing but is very adept at pretending interest if it will get her a man; golf ,horse-racing, motor racing and sailing are all fertile areas for her pursuit of men.

I sip my Americano then pull myself together and smile at her. ‘It sounds promising. And I wish you all the luck with it! But I’ll have to pass on the job offer. I wouldn’t leave the agency for anything because it’s the occupation I’ve loved more than anything else I’ve ever done.’

She sniffs. She’s told me ,any times she doesn’t know how I can do a caring job; how I can deal with bodily fluids, smells, and upsetting situations. But she doesn’t understand the satisfaction and pleasure of looking after others, nor does she see how my fellow workers’ companionship enhances my life, the laughs, the hugs and the friendship akin to love.

Part 2 of Two Sisters can be read in next week’s post…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Autumn Arboretum

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The dry and sunny weather has stuck with us for October so far. Husband’s birthday comes around and I cast around for a good activity on this Sunday afternoon, hitting on the idea of Hilliers’s Aboretum, near Romsey, Hampshire- a charitable trust that offers a garden centre as well as a huge estate full of assorted, indigenous trees. Early autumn is a great time to visit because the colours of the trees’ leaves is beginning to develop as they wind down for their winter sleep.

The colours of the Hampshire countryside are already showing promise even before we arrive to Hillier’s. The car park is busy so we’re not the only ones wanting to experience the best that a British autumn can offer today.

At the ticket counter, we’re given a map plus an opportunity to take out a ‘lifetime membership’, a deal that feels questionable. given that we A] won’t be coming every weekend for ever’ and B] ‘lifetime’ doesn’t seem that much of a bargain when you’re in your later life…

Still, we’re here and stepping out around the plantation, starting with a magnificent view down across the hills and over the landscape. Then we turn left and plunge into the trees. Husband, who is a botanist, knows a great deal about plants and trees, although not their names, which amuses me.

Wandering down along the path towards the pond and the bog garden, the colours range from purple and crimson through to flame orange, gold and yellow. En route there is an occasional added item for interest- a xylophone, some drums, a mud kitchen- all there to entertain bored children.

After a wrong turn or two, we find the pond, which has fish, lilies, timber seating areas and, in the centre of the water, a spectacular larch. Larches are unique in that they are conifers but shed their needles in the winter. Before this, though, they turn a bright orange. This single tree’s reflection on the water is amazing.

Around the outside of the pond, in the bog areas, there is towering Gunnera, just starting to decay, the enormous leaves beginning to blacken. Further on, beyond and above the pond area we walk through a tunnel of tall bamboo.

The path winds up and out then we emerge at the start of a wide alley flanked by herbaceous borders, a grass area between, that seem to extend as far as the eye can see. The borders, even this late in the year, are chock full of colour, with dahlias, geraniums, asters and so many more flowers, most being visited by bees, a lovely sight.

Then we’re back to the start, and since we’re by the cafe, it feels churlish not to give it a visit for tea and excellent fruit cake.

Later, I feel glad to have had the cake as I wait [too long] for my meal to be delivered to our table in ‘The Botanist’ restaurant. But what an appropriate place for botanist Husband’s birthday meal!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Local or Loco

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In the UK autumn began with cold, unpleasant weather. September here is usually a mild, calming down kind of month, cooling from the summer’s stifling heatwaves but still with plenty of sunshine and warm temperatures. This year’s September was disappointing. October, however has offered many sunny days and the sun still has some warmth.

Having missed out on our September van odyssey, we’ve been day tripping from home as well as tucking the garden in for the winter. Lucky as we are to live between the sea and one of the UK’s most iconic national parks, we’re spoilt for choice, although there isn’t really anywhere that’s new, these days!

There are places where the New Forest National Park meets the sea and we’re headed to one- at Lepe, where a beachside cafe and car park overlook the section of the English channel called the Solent and the Isle of Wight and its iconic ‘Needles’ rocks. On the way we pass through Beaulieu village with its chocolate-box charm and pass groups of New Forest ponies grazing by the roadsides as well as shaggy cattle and wriggling pigs, foraging for acorns in a ditch. We forget, sometimes, that all of this nature and wildlife is on our doorstep!

It’s quite busy even on this autumn afternoon, and some hardy souls are in the sea- which is, of course, at its warmest from summer heat. In the car park there’s one of these pop-up sauna cabins that seems to be the fashion this year, which explains the proliferation of sea swimmers, too.

The cafe and outbuildings are pleasing, timber structures. After a short walk we go up the ramp to the cafe, which has large windows facing the Isle of Wight, then it’s time to move on, to yet another forest meets sea spot- Calshot. The beach here is pebbly but there are great views of the shipping going past on Southampton water. In the distance you can see Portsmouth, too, the Spinnaker tower standing out. There’s a line of beach huts here, although no one in residence today in spite of warm sunshine.

Sometimes cruise ships come past on their way in or out of the port at Southampton, but today there’s only a distant tanker plus the Isle of Wight ferry going backwards and forwards. Further on towards the end of the spit, where the shipping channel bisects the land, there is a castle, built by Henry VIII. Tall pylons and towers of the Fawley oil refinery protrude from the landward side forest.

We drive back along the forest roads again, past open, heather clad common and through dense forest. The leaves haven’t changed colour yet but there are signs of the yellow, umber , gold and red that are to come. Redwoods tower above the ornamental drive and the late afternoon sun glints and glitters through the branches. Lovely.

Then it’s home and back to phoning the AA road rescue…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Exit

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It’s mid morning in the Help the Aged charity shop and the store is quiet, except for one or two shoppers making diligent searches of the rails. Faye has been out the back, sorting through the latest batch of donations. Donated clothing and bric-a-brac have been dwindling lately and she’s had to discard much more than she did when she first became the manager of the shop.

She pulls the curtain and goes into the sales area. Melissa is on the till today. She’s a smiley, willing volunteer who enjoys interacting with the shoppers but needs a lot of support with practicalities.

‘Melissa, it’s time you had a break. Go and make a coffee and I’ll take over for a bit.’ The young woman smiles and goes out to the back. Faye settles on the bar stool and casts an eye over the shop, wondering whether the window displays should change now, to reflect the change of season. Perhaps an autumn theme with brown, orange and yellow hues is in order? She’s found herself enjoying this lowly, managerial role with a small wage during the six months since she was appointed.

The door opens and a woman enters. Faye stares. Can it really be her? Looking older, yes, hair longer and un-styled; wearing jeans. Jeans? Faye never once saw Selena in jeans, not on training days, never on social occasions, not even on a company fund-raising day. Her ex boss hasn’t looked up yet, hasn’t spotted her. Faye watches her progress along the rails, thinking, remembering.

In her lunch hour, Faye carried the cardboard box of her belongings down to the car park and put it into the boot of her battered Ford Fiesta. In truth, there weren’t many things to take home; her favourite pen, a couple of best wishes cards from colleagues, her bone china mug from the kitchen and the photo of her kids. As she’d packed the items, Faye couldn’t help thinking it was precious little to show for the twelve years she’d worked here.

To get downstairs she’d had to use the corridor outside Selena’s office, the door of which was almost always open. She’d had to scoot past without looking, hoping that Selena would be too engrossed in something on the computer to notice her. They’d said everything they had to say, now, hadn’t they?

She went back upstairs and glanced quickly in at Selena as she padded along the corridor but the room was empty. Back at her desk, opposite Frank, she sank down and took her sandwich out of her bag. There were few in this lunchtime, most preferring to get off the premises for a break in the middle of the day.

‘Why are you hanging about, Faye?’ her friend Orla called from across the office. ‘you should get going and make the most of the afternoon. Hit the shops! Go for a walk! Curl up with a magazine! Get your nails done!’

Faye smiled. ‘I’m not going to be short of time now, am I?’

Orla came across and handed her a coffee, pulling up a seat beside her. She was her closest friend at work, nowadays. They laughed at the same things, shared good and bad news.

‘Still nothing on the job front?’

‘Not unless I want to work in the Amazon warehouse or make deliveries. It may come to that.’

The afternoon passed slowly, Faye idly searching agency jobs. The events of the last weeks still hurt. The announcement of the ‘reorganisation and restructuring’, the revelation about staffing levels needing to be cut, the anxiety inducing wait to see who was to go, the afternoon she’d been summoned to be told it was to be her, one of the oldest, Experience counted for mothing.

Selena had arrived only a couple of years ago, replacing Jan, who’d been a great friend to Faye but had moved onwards and upwards into a promotion many miles away. Selena wasn’t fond of those who’d been friendly with her predecessor, finding fault with small tasks and making snide remarks over trivial issues. She wasn’t a glamourous woman but most office staff were aware she was sleeping with the director, Lance, who was married with teenaged children. The general feeling seemed to be that the affair was mystifying, as while Selena was expensively dressed and coiffed, she was plain to the point of frumpy.

Faye looked at her watch. In five minutes she was due in for her exit interview. Should she remain mute? Should she speak her mind? She still had no idea what her manager would say, what she, Faye would say. She’d thought about it, awake at night, all the things she’d like to say to Selena. How she’d been picky, never complimentary, stared at them, she and Orla, when they’d laughed at something. Maybe she thought they were laughing at her? Sometimes they were.

Time was up. She walked along to Selena’s small office and through the open door.

‘Take a seat’ the woman ordered, unsmiling.

Faye sat. What did anything matter now? The ideal thing was to get out as soon as possible. Selena asked her if she’d had any interviews, got anywhere with her job search.

‘No.’ Faye shrugged. Selena droned on about CVs and references and was there anything else they could do?

‘No. There was a pause.

‘OK. So I wonder, is there anything about the running of this place you think might be improved. We’d really value your input.’

Faye sat up, stared at the woman across the desk. A small bubble of laughter threatened to escape, then Faye let it out in a guffaw.

‘No you don’t!.’ she gasped, wiping her eyes, and she stood, turned and walked out of the room. Ay the bottom of the stairs she stopped for a moment to look at her photo on the personnel board, then reached up and took it down, leaving a pale rectangle where it had been. She pushed the photo into her bag and marched with a jaunty step across to her car.

She’s smiling when Selena finally looks up from the bargain rail and spots her. She looks shocked, drawn. The dress she’d been holding up against her was shoved back on to the rail before she turned and rushed through the shop, head down, out of the door and away as fast as her legs could go.

Faye is still smiling when she gets home, a warm bubble encasing her. She can’t wait to tell Orla, who had been next on the redundancy list.

How the mighty are fallen…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Harriet in the Hedge

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I’m Googling ‘ways to kill your husband.’

Nobody can see me in here, my tiny hideaway. Terence never comes up the garden this far and considers it a wilderness, which is fine by me; the wilder the better.

I might not be serious- or I might be.

Here in my little den I have everything I need. Stool, rescued from the pavement where it was abandoned, cigarettes and lighter, plus the phone of course but I don’t leave that in here. Terence doesn’t know about the cigarettes or the hiding place for that matter.

He’s coming out now. Wait for it…

‘Harriet? Harry? Are you out here?’ I’m shrinking back into the leafy cave but I know he won’t look this far.

‘Harry? Can you come and hold this hardboard a minute? Harriet?’ He’s standing outside the back door and muttering to himself now. ‘Where has she got to?’

He’s gone back inside. I’m scrolling through the search results. There are a lot, Some are listed with advantages and drawbacks.

Poisoning: Advantages: neat, easy, Disadvantages: detectable, traceable to killer.

Shooting: Advantages: quick, conclusive Disadvantages: messy, difficult to acquire gun,

Stabbing: Advantages: no preparation Disadvantages: messy

He’s come back out. ‘Harriet! I can’t find my blue-handled screwdriver. Can you come and look?’ Mutter, mutter and he goes back indoors. I’ve been out here for half an hour so I’ll have one more ciggie and have to go indoors. He’ll ask where I’ve been. I have plenty of answers up my sleeve for that one; next door at Patsy’s [good for explaining lingering cigarette smoke smells], to the shop, to post a letter, to the road to get a phone signal. There’s an endless list.

I look again. Allergies: Advantages: hard to detect Disadvantages: victim needs to be allergic to substance. Does Terence have any dangerous allergies? I can’t recall any.

‘Where were you?’ he asks, when I enter the kitchen.

‘Just popped next door to Patsy’s,’ I tell him and open the fridge, looking for dinner inspiration. Maybe I can use poison mushrooms, like that Australian woman, except that she didn’t get away with it and everyone knows about that method now. I could push him down the stairs except that we live in a bungalow.

Next time I get into my den, it’s raining. But it’s dense and thick in here; even my fags are dry. I’m contemplating sleeping out here. There’s a sleeping bag somewhere in the house. I’m rummaging in the hall cupboard when Terence appears, huffing and puffing.

‘Harriet!’ he squeaks. ‘Where is my new packet of blood pressure tablets? I should have taken one this morning!’

I pause. Even in this dark cupboard, it’s a lightbulb moment. No blood pressure tablets? I turn round. ‘I’ll have a look for them after supper,’ I say…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Almost Not Return

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This post contains images of van life in happier times…

So the cheeky quirks of fate were not yet done with us.

We’d booked a ferry crossing from Cherbourg back to Poole as foot passengers, since the van was still immobile and stuck in the car park of a garage [who did not wish to repair it] in the unlovely commercial zone of Lecousse, near Fougeres.

Now it was Wednesday and we were due to sail on an overnight boat. Initially it seemed there were no cabins, although we could get couchettes; then later a cabin became available, which was a rare piece of good luck in a whole chapter of misfortune. The ferry would leave at 9.30pm, meaning that we’d need to be there at the terminal by around 8.45pm. I had rung the assistance number and informed them we’d need a hire car to get to the port and been told that the French AA were working on it.

It was 9.00am. We packed and left our hotel room, taking our luggage down to the lobby to wait for a taxi to collect us and take us to the hire car depot,

We waited. And waited,

I got a text from the French AA to say they were ‘doing their best for us’. Really?

We waited.

We read. We got coffees.

By late morning we were anxious. The weather had become squally, deluges of rain lashing the hotel windows. I rang the AA, to be told they were looking for a car ‘equivalent to the car the client drives’. ‘We drive a campervan’ I told her. ‘We can’t get one of those’ was the reply! I said we’d take ANY car. We needed to get going.

We waited.

At about 2pm I received a text to say a taxi was coming at 3.00pm. We could still get to the ferry if we didn’t hang about too much.

At three, when we were almost climbing the walls of hotel lobby, a taxi came. We climbed in and set off on a ride that seemed ridiculously long, taking precious time off our Cherbourg drive and far from Fougeres, where we’d discovered the nearest ‘Europcar’ hire depot was.

The driver took us to the environs of Rennes, which was a mystery, and dropped us at a car hire office. We took our luggage and entered, giving our details to the woman at the counter. The taxi left. The woman searched her computer.

‘No,’ she said. ‘There is no booking under that name.’ My stomach, [which had churned far too much for an organ affected by IBD] lurched with nausea yet again. The woman searched neighbouring offices and yes, we were at the wrong car hire office. Did I have the number for the French AA? No. I rang the British number and she spoke to them. I looked at my watch. It seemed likely that we would, now, miss the ferry. Then…

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will get you a car.’

I feel that beatification is not good enough for this woman-

We did the paperwork, went out to the back, got into a car. Husband would drive. We set off. The car was without a SATNAV and we were in some unidentifiable area of Rennes. I got navigation on my phone and we got out of Rennes, on to the ring road and away.

We made good time, even managing a stop for a coffee and a snack- I’d been unable to eat anything all day. When we reached Cherbourg, we followed instructions from the car hire woman, dropping the car in the station car park. We were still a distance from the ferry terminal but a bus took us there.

Inside the foot passenger building there were 5 of us waiting, in hard, plastic chairs with nothing resembling a cafe, only a dysfunctional coffee machine. At last, we got into a shuttle bus which took us on to the ferry. I have never been so glad to get on to the Barfleur. We found our cabin, dumped bags and went to the bar, sinking into seats, exhausted.

We are home, of course, sans van. As of now, there is no sign of repair, no news that it can be collected. Not only does it have our bikes, locked on to the back, it also contains many of our clothes, shoes and belongings. So we wait…again…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com